Every once in a while when purchasing crap off of Amazon, I find a funny review, but it has been a rare thing to find one that says so exactly what I would like to say. Today, I found such a review, and I thought I would share it. I recently got a compost bin, and since it is outside at almost the back of my house, I determined that I need to get some sort of countertop thing to hold my scraps for a bit rather than have to make the trek back to the bin each time I cooked something. Not that the bin is far, but I live near a lake, and it is summer, which means there are lots of snakes about, and I often do my cooking at night. While I don't want a bunch of crap in my house drawing bugs, I don't want to step on a water mocassin or a copperhead, either.

So today I thought I'd try to find myself a countertop composter. This one here, the Epica Stainless Steel 1 Gallon Compost Bin is the #1 best seller on good ol' Amazon. I always check the reviews because, even though we all know some of them are lies, I still like to read the bad ones to get a worst case scenario going on in my head. If I can deal with the worst case scenario, then I usually move forward with the deal. Often, however, I find reviews where the stupid reviewer rates a product badly because of their own stupidity. "It's not as big as I thought," they say, though the item measurements are right there on the page. "I needed an X, but this is a Y, so it didn't work" -- buy the right product, idiot. I know you all know what I am talking about. The review I'd like to share with you today addresses just such a thing. It has been rated the most helpful review by about 550 other people, so I'm obviously not the only one who enjoyed it. The link is here, and the full text follows:

542 of 554 people found the following review helpfulThis bin is great, unlike some of the reviewers here.,July 23, 2014Verified Purchase(What's this?)This review is from:Epica Stainless Steel Compost Bin 1 Gallon (Kitchen)I have zero complaints about this compost bin, for which reason I am giving it five stars, because that's how Amazon reviews work.However, based a couple of reviews that I'm reading now, I'm guessing that the main reason I'm pleased with this bin (apart from the fact that it performs its intended function perfectly well) is that I actually understand what a compost bin is and what composting involves. Here are some pointers, in case you are new to this:1. A compost bin is basically just a pot with a lid on it. If you are going to order this thing and then find yourself shocked when you receive what is basically just a pot with a lid on it in the mail (despite the numerous images on this page that clearly show what is basically a pot with a lid on it), then please just go buy a pot and save yourself the trouble of posting a really stupid review on Amazon that blames the product for the fact that you didn't realize what a compost bin was.2. Composting involves taking your food scraps that would *otherwise be trash* and keeping them in a bucket (or a pot with a lid on it) in your kitchen. For this reason, it will *get dirty*, just like the rest of the items in your kitchen that come in contact with food. You will often have to *wipe it down* to remove the residue of whatever you put in it, *just like everything else in your kitchen*. Don't let the term "compost bin" fool you into thinking that this product has the magical ability to self-clean. Remember that this is basically just a pot with a lid on it.3. Here's the thing about food scraps: they break down over time. They even break down a bit over the course of a few days. Another word for this breakdown process is "rotting". THIS IS WHY WE COMPOST THEM. If you leave your compost sitting on your counter for a week at a time, *it will start to smell*. DO NOT BLAME THE BIN - get off your lazy rump and go empty the dang thing. Would you keep your trash for a week if it was full of rotting food? NO. Honestly, a bin that will hold a week's worth of scraps isn't a good thing. A compost bin is not a panacea for all compost-related unpleasantness. If you don't want your food scraps smelling on your countertop, but you also refuse to walk allllll the way to your compost bin more than once a week, then maybe composting isn't for you. Which is fine, just don't leave a three star review on Amazon once you figure that out.-Okay, done snarking. Here's what I like about this bin:*It looks good on the countertop*It has a carrying handle, unlike your average pot with a lid on it*It is well-proportioned - tall enough to hold a good amount of stuff without having a huge footprint on the countertop, but not so tall that it tips over*I've had little to no problem with fruit flies, presumably because I have been careful to only remove the lid when I am putting stuff in the bin*It cleans easily*It is durable and unbreakableBasically, it does everything a compost bin should do, assuming you do not have ridiculous, uninformed, and mutually-incompatible expectations for how it will function.

Oh, my dear, sweet Sonnenblme, please don't stop the snark. This review is a thing of beauty. Though I often have the urge to call people out on their stupidity, I rarely take the time. You are an inspiration. I see it has been nearly a year since this wonderful missive, so I can only hope that you will soon buy other products that have reviews you find annoying. Not that I want you to live in a state of perpetual annoyance, but I would love to see more of your take down skills in action. Come back, Sonnenblme, come back!

﻿So all I have heard about this guy is that he is a really good writer and a really big jerk*. I cannot confirm or deny either, though the first bit is looking good. That being said, this is my favorite thing I’ve read in a while: (In discussing the relative insignificance of our little lives, a boy talks to his father …)﻿ … I asked if he could think of a solution to that problem. “Which problem?” “The problem of how relatively insignificant we are.” He said, “Well, what would happen if a plane dropped you in the middle of the Sahara Desert and you picked up a single grain of sand with tweezers and moved it one millimeter?” … I said, “I dunno, what?” He said, “Think about it.” I thought about it. “I guess I would have moved a grain of sand.” “Which would mean?” “Which would mean I moved a grain of sand?” “Which would mean you changed the Sahara.” “So?” “So? So the Sahara is a vast desert. And it has existed for millions of years. And you changed it!” “That’s true,” I said, sitting up. “I changed the Sahara! … I’m not talking about painting the Mona Lisa or curing cancer. I’m just talking about moving that one grain of sand one millimeter. ” … I stood on the bed, pointed my fingers at the fake stars, and screamed: I changed the universe!” “You did!” “I’m God!” “You’re an atheist.” “I don’t exist!” I fell back onto the bed, into his arms, and we cracked up together.Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer

Well, I picked a really stupid time to try and resuscitate this blog. I guess for once it is a good thing that no one reads it! It is difficult to review novels while trying to finish one, or form coherent thoughts while trying to change jobs, so I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good time to pick this back up, but, oh well. I should have a proper post in the next couple days, but in the meantime, I leave you with something beautiful:Wild GeeseMary Oliver You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things. Have a great week, everyone!

When I first picked up David Mitchell's The Bone Clocks, I got that tingle you get when you crack open a new book to find that it starts off with a bing, bam, boom. That little something something that makes you think you’re in for an epic read. I settled on the couch, got a blanket, the cats, and dug in. Unfortunately, the tingle fizzled right around the time things go metaphysical, an unusual occurrence for me. That’s when I typically get interested in a book. Heralded all over the internet as the greatest thing since white bread and toilet paper (check out NPR's extensive coverage, The Bone Clocks is a big ol’ book, covering a big ol’ span of time, with a big ol’ cast of characters, all of which is handled competently. I got a little misty at the end, but having been finished with it for a couple of weeks now, nothing really sticks with me. Except the dog. I worry about the dog. The dog is probably why I got misty at the end. Animals always get me. On to the book. The Bone Clocks switches POVs throughout, but working class Brit Holly Sykes is the character whose thread holds the whole thing together, and for what it’s worth, she’s likable enough. We meet Holly on page one, and then follow her as she meanders through about 60 years of her life, beginning in the mid-1980s and ending in 2043. The defining moment of Holly’s life is when her little brother Jacko disappears on the day she runs away from home after quarreling with her mother about her boyfriend. She keeps running after finding out Jacko is gone, trying to both escape her pain and find answers to his disappearance. The journey takes Holly all over the place; England, Wales, Switzerland, Cartagena, New York, Iceland, Ireland. I may have missed one or two. Along the way, she meets the rest of the folks who populate the book; a charming, handsome, psychopathic Cambridge student (whose end is so very disappointing); an egotistical, emotionally stunted, a-hole of a British writer (whose end is so very out there, and not in a good way); a war journalist addicted to the chaos of his job (whose end is sincerely sad, if inevitable); and a couple-three quasi-immortal souls (some of whom have endings and some of whom do not). We get child-murders, soul-stealings, portals to different worlds, and an elite, secret society out to save it all from a group of supermodel quasi-vampires. Intertwined with all of this are the very real and personal stories of the people involved. Mitchell covers the gamut of human emotions, and these stories are frankly more compelling than all the science fiction-y stuff that seems to be the focus of the novel. I guess this is supposed to be the big deal about David Mitchell – that he combines the real and the meta-real and makes it work. Oooookay. There are actually a lot of writers who do that, writers who are considered straight up “genre” (that ugly stepchild) and, being considered so, receive far less respect or acknowledgement than Mitchell. Yet, for my money, those writers do this kind of thing in a far more satisfying way, and without tying everything up in a neat little package. This was my first Mitchell book, so maybe I’m lacking some knowledge of what it is that is so terrific about him. His prose was good, sure. At times, it was beautiful, wondrous – but at times, it was schlocky, too. The story was original and well-paced – but too many of the plot- turning events hinge on circumstances all too convenient. And unlike some other novels, there was nothing in this one that was spectacular enough to balance the tedious prose and author tricks. I can suspend disbelief with the best of them, and can overlook more than most, but even I have limits. I can’t help but question the praise the book is receiving. I wonder, yet again, why and how writers like Mitchell become such media and critical darlings. I’m not dissing The Bone Clocks, really. Maybe my expectations were too high after all the hullabaloo, but I just found it sort of meh. It’s brain candy. Well-written brain candy with lots of $5 dollar words, but brain candy nonetheless. If that’s what you’re looking for, have at it. It’s fun. Still, I’m off to shave a star or two from my Goodreads rating. And I think some critics should broaden their reading horizons if they think The Bone Clocks is such a big deal.

Last night, I opened up my journal for the first time in a long time to write an entry and was greeted by a quote I jotted down at some point and then forgot about. The quote is “Fight for what you love, not against what you hate.”* Now, obviously this quote struck me before, but last night, it didn’t just strike me; it zapped me with a 2,000 watt flash. I think when I originally read it, I felt the truth in it, but didn’t really stop to consider it too much. After re-reading it, I can’t stop thinking about it.

I think the difference between fighting for something you love and not against something you hate is a subtle one. Fighting against something you hate would seem to be synonymous with fighting for something you love, as love and hate are a binary pair. There's no room for gray, no blurring of lines.

But the difference, I now see, is in the focus of the thing. I sit at a weird spot on the spectrum between skeptic and New Age hippie Spiritualist. I don’t believe that one can sit in a chair in one’s living room pretending to drive a Porsche and thus manifest a Porsche, a la The Secret. Actually, I think that kind of thing is dangerous in that it will not help you figure out how to get a Porsche, but keep you focused on the fact that you don’t have one, and worse, you’re desperate and deluded enough to sit in your living room all by yourself and pretend to be driving one and really expect a $100,000 car to just show up out of the blue. But I digress. But not really. I'm getting there.

I do believe in the fundamental concept presented in The Secret -- that what we lend our energy to is what “manifests” in our lives. You hear this truth all the time in our most familiar cliches – “Practice makes perfect”; “You become what you see”; “Actions speak louder than words,” and endless others. What we focus on is what our lives become.

If you’re fighting something you hate, what are you focusing on? Something you hate! Trust me, as someone who has spent the majority of her life fighting all kinds of things she hates, I can say with conviction that this approach is not a happy one. Focusing on the things you hate oftentimes leads to feeling like there is no point, because the thing you hate just keeps on and on and on. It is never eradicated, which means, in essence, you have failed. Once you feel like a failure, it becomes so much easier to just throw up your hands and give up.

But fighting for something you love ... we’re on to something here. This changes the focus totally and completely. And I can’t help but think that focusing on things one loves has to feel a whole lot better than the alternative, and is far, far more motivating. Imagine if someone came at you with the intent of depriving you of your most loved possession, or with the intent of hurting a being you loved, or trashing your most dearly held beliefs and passions. How hard would you work to defend those things? To make sure those things flourished and survived?

And doesn’t fighting for sound infinitely more productive than fighting against? And by strengthing that which we love, do we not weaken that which we hate?

I feel born again. Maybe all you super advanced humans are saying, “Well, duh,” to yourselves right now, but I don’t care! My eyes are opened, man, and nothing anyone can say or do is going to tear me down! I know it is going to be a challenge to make this shift. Just today, I've had to correct my thinking on more occasions than I'd like to admit. But I'm working on it, and it feels right.

That’s why I’m back to this blog thing. Because what I love is the written word, the exchange of ideas, literature, stories, books, tales, you name it. And though all I’ve gotten in the past for my efforts is a whole bunch of radio silence and/or chirping crickets, I don’t care. This is me focusing on what I love, fighting for what I love, and building my life around what I love. Who knows, maybe as I stumble along, other like-minded people will find their way here, and we can fight for love together.

*I cannot for the life of me remember or find this quote, so I cannot attribute it to the obviously much smarter than me person who said it. If anyone knows, tell me so I can do so. Thanks!

That isn’t to say that I think “Bellman & Black” is on par with “The Thirteenth Tale”; on some ways, it is not. But on others, it more than reaches the mark.

Let’s go ahead and get the comparison out of the way. “The Thirteenth Tale” is probably one of my very favorite books; the ending was a little weaker than I would have liked, but otherwise, it was near perfect, imho. It is a great story, an intriguing story, a life story that draws you in and never lets you go. Read it, if you haven’t.

“Bellman & Black” isn’t quite as good of a story as “The Thirteenth Tale.” It’s a little more ambiguous, a little more layered and philosophical. There is something that “Bellman & Black” does better than “The Thirteenth Tale,” and that is deliver beautiful writing

The ridiculous gorgosity of Setterfield’s words had me clutching my chest at points. To say that this is some of the most utterly gorgeous writing I’ve experienced would not be hyperbole. It is the kind of stuff writers dream of writing, and that readers get misty over. I wanted to eat entire passages, let the words roll around on my palate so I could savor each and every one.

As to the story. In today’s pace-crazed literary world, I would bet money that there are going to be cries of, “It’s too slow! She needed an editor!” But I, as usual, don’t agree. “Bellman & Black” follows the story of William Bellman, an affable man who leads an unusually charmed life. Until it becomes an unusually cursed one. But who curses Bellman?

The story is being touted as the story of a man punished for a boyhood act of cruelty, but I think the book is about life, death, and how we handle fear. Thrice in the novel, Bellman is faced with situations that tear him apart emotionally. Though he appears to recover each time, I would argue that he does not. He simply finds more and more effective ways to not feel. To me, this book read as sort of a fable about modern life, and how we as a world have turned our back on the things that make life worth living, things like love, family, connection, art, and beauty. All of these things are dangerous: love dies; family, too; art and beauty are fleeting. Rather than risk being made uncomfortable, being made to hurt, we’ve submerged ourselves in work, building for the sake of building, and the accumulation of money. But is that life? When our life flashes before our eyes in that final moment, will we be happy with what we see?

“Bellman & Black” is much deeper, I think, than it appears at the surface. It is rife with symbols and archetypes, and days after finishing it, I’m still turning things over in my head. However, if that’s not your thing, read it anyway – for the words. The glorious, glorious words. Setterfield is a wordsmith, an artisan of letters. Don’t miss out.

Oh, and, be nice to black birds, just in case. (It’ll make sense once you read it.)

_ Does everyone remember the movie “Billy Elliot”?For those who don’t, it’s about a little boy who grows up in a very butch Northern England mining town who loves to dance.Loves it.Can’t be stopped.Wants more than anything to dance.After much trial and tribulation, he winds up at The Royal Ballet School and becomes a world class ballet dancer. I love this movie.It makes me cry every time I see it – Billy facing up to all sorts of obstacles and prejudices, and then making his dream come true.When he gets his acceptance letter and is almost too nervous to read it, goes into another room and shuts the door so he can be alone, and then cries and says simply, “I got in” through his tears when his family comes to check on him – well, it’s a moment anyone who has ever worked hard at something creative longs for.That moment when someone, somewhere, someone in authority, someone who knows finally acknowledges that you’ve got talent, agrees to give you a chance, and even help you along. But what if Billy hadn’t gotten in?Or even worse to me, what if Billy had gotten in and found out that the Royal Ballet School was a bunch of malarkey?That the Royal Ballet School had kind of sucky teachers who weren’t really interested in helping him become the best ballet dancer he could be?Maybe they didn’t pay attention because he was a boy, or because he was from a poor town, whatever.What would Billy do then? I have no doubt that in the movie, Billy would have just brushed himself off and kept on dancing.But in real life, when all too often we don’t “get in,” how do you keep going in the face of such disappointment? In my case, replace Billy’s dancing with writing, the only difference being that I didn’t get a lot of support and started to do it seriously much later in life than I would like.But I’m doing it, working hard, blah, blah.When disappointments come my way, I try to deal with them by applying the old skater creed, “Acknowledge and Move On.” ** This works well for run of the mill disappointments.Story rejections, say.I brush them off, look at the rejected piece again, and if I think it needs changes, I make them; if I don’t, I send it elsewhere.Sometimes, though, when it’s something I want oh so badly, and I come oh so close to getting it, the “acknowledge” portion can really out weight the “move on” portion of the show. I know all the arguments – getting close is better than a lot of people ever get; it’s a good sign that you are, well, close to where you want to be.The logical wisdom is to take seconds to acknowledge and then move on quickly, decisively, and boldly.Because you’re close.You’ve got momentum. More often, though, I turn the whole thing inward.Those thisclose experiences can shut me down for a long, long time, and the bigger they are and the closer I come, the harder the trap door slams when things don’t quite work out.I don’t send stuff out unless it’s my best (99.9% of the time, anyway – there have been a couple of 3AM submissions to places where I was just too tired and too over it to care anymore) so if it comes back with a so-close rejection, I tend to spiral a bit.The internal monologue becomes, “That’s it.That’s the best I can do.I’m good, apparently, but not good enough.” Not Good Enough.Are there any crueler words than those three? Feeling not good enough sometimes makes me want to give up.To throw my hands up in the air, stomp my feet, put on some Patsy Cline and wail.I tend to be a bit of a drama queen, but I am serious when I say that the “not good enough” shit really, seriously trips me up. How do you deal with it?Wallow a few days, flip the world a big bird and move on?Crumple up the letter, smile widely and get to work, faking it till you make it?Stick a hot fork in your eye and swear to kill yourself if ONE MORE PERSON rejects your work? Okay, that last one isn’t an option.But I’ve tried the first two, and both feel like just what they are – faking it.I’ve not mastered the art of turning faking into making.Am I just weak?Do I give up too easily? I don’t know.I’m still chugging along, but some days – a lot of days – it feels pretty pointless.Getting an MBA begins to sound like a good idea.Never writing another word begins to sound like a relief. So, help a sister out, will you?Give me some ideas.I know some of you must feel these things, too.How do you overcome?

** That may or may not be an official Skater Creed. All I know is a hot skater boy with floppy bangs used to say it all the time, so it works for me.

Meh. That's how I feel about this book. It started off rather promising, with the protagonist Sarah Weston seeming like a very interesting character. A neuromusicologist studying with a genius professor and possessed with super sensory capabilities, she is recruited to take her mentor's place cataloging a series of original Beethoven artifacts from the personal collection of the Lobkowicz family, who are Prague royalty. With this good fortune comes bad news; the position is open because her cherished mentor, Professor Sherbatsky, has killed himself.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, Sarah decides to go to Prague, not only drawn by her fanatical love of Ludwig Van (Sarah calls him LVB, but I prefer to stick with Burgess's nomenclature), but to delve into the mystery of Sherbatsky's death -- suicide doesn't seem like a good fit in her opinion.

Great set up, yeah? Good mystery, gonna have some history thrown in, takes place in a wonderful city. So why just meh?

Mainly because I could see so much of it coming from a 1000 miles away, and because the prose relied a little too much on wit rather than substance. Not to say that the writing was bad, because it wasn't. Not all of it. The loving descriptions of Prague are wonderful, as are the asides regarding Beethoven and his work. Without spoiling too much, there is a scene where Sarah has the opportunity to see her idol play in the flesh, and it is as moving as anything you'll read. Beethoven is presented throughout the novel in all his gassy, contemptuous glory, but his musical genius and recurring deafness are handled beautifully. I actually got misty once or twice.

So I know ol' Magnus has got it in him (or her? Magnus is, in fact, two female writers, Christina Lynch and Meg Howery, the first a journalist/TV writer and the second a novelist). But, for me, the novelist's art got bogged down with what felt like very mechanical, quick, get 'er done journalistic style reporting and a tv writer's sense of plot and scene. Which for many isn't a bad thing. But for all of the originality of the set up, the authors rely on a bunch of cliches, which they try to tart up with graphic sex scenes, drug taking, stereotypical homosexuals (a seamstress gay man and a gun-loving lesbian, who also happens to be a Japanese Texan), and time travel. For me, it felt so formulaic and clever -- I can just see these two high-fiving each other because they managed to get a person with a disability (more on her later), a little person, both flavor of gays, a Hispanic person, AND an Asian person all in one story. Never mind that the entire staff working in Prague are either American or from an English speaking country. Never mind that the Lobkowicz heir, Prince Max Lubkowicz Anderson, is also American. How convenient! Actually, that's my problem with most of the elements of this novel -- they're all just so damn convenient.

And since we brought up the prince, well, since one exists in the story, I bet you can guess what happens. If you guessed that he seems a bit haughty and cold and rubs Sarah the wrong way, you'd be right. If you guessed that through a string of uncanny occurrences and impossible circumstances that Sarah and Prince Max are thrown together, forcing her to see his softer side and him to see her ... I'm not sure, which in turn forces them to fall madly in love, you'd be right again.

In fact, the only thing unexpected about Sarah's story at all, besides the fancy window trappings of her scholarship, is the way her sexuality is handled. While I believe the author's goal was to make Sarah a brilliant, independent, smart young woman who doesn't need NOBODY's permission to do to NOTHING, she comes off as a raunchy caricature, a la Sex in the City. I have no problem with people getting it on in the books I read, but, in my opinion, the sex in this novel is handled badly and used more as a deus ex machina than as an aspect of the protag. We're told that Sarah enjoys sex, but the way this enjoyment first manifests seems to come out of nowhere and is really, really, really creepy.

Speaking of deus ex machinas, there are enough of them in this book that the gun loving lesbian Japanese Texan could have lined 'em up as targets in a shooting gallery and had herself quite a go. Characters do and say things that don't make sense until a couple of sentences later, and then the reader says, "Aha!" It is so set up. And Sarah is always in the right place at the right time. This choice in how to move the point along is what, to me, gave the entire book the feeling of an author/s doing the high-five, we're-so-goddamn-clever thing. And it really makes the story wear thin by the end of the book.

There are a couple of high points, however. Secondary characters Nicolas Pertusato and Pollina, the aforementioned little person and blind girl, respectively, bring a lot of interest to the novel. How could they not? Nico is a mysterious creature with an unusual knowledge of Prague history, and Pollina, despite her blindness and being only eleven, is a virtuoso piano player. She also happens to be extremely religious and a genius, despite the fact that her parents have abandoned her to the care of her gay, Hispanic butler named Jose and an elderly mastiff named Boris (who just happened to be a retired bomb sniffing canine, which comes in really handy in the final scenes!). Pollina lives alone but for Jose and Boris in an old Boston mansion chock full of curiosities her globe trotting parents have brought home, and Nico turns out to come by all of his esoteric knowledge because he was once, 400 years prior, the jester of Tico Brahe. As outlandish as these two might sound to you, they come off as far more believable than either Sarah or Max, or any of the other characters, really, and each time they are onscreen, so to speak, I wanted more. It seemed a shame that such wildly original characters, particularly Pollina, were used as just more cogs in the old deus ex machina.

Even the villain of the story, icy Republican senator and previous double spy Charlotte Yates, is a cardboard cutout who also reads like a rejected Sex in the City character. Her story is so flat and boring, I can't even really be bothered with it. Like everyone and everything else, she is a cog, and you can see her twisting her proverbial moustache and rubbing her palms together a mile away. At first I thought she was a parody of Sarah Palin, and certainly some of the things her media team make her do and her bottomless ambition are inspired by our Lovely Lady of the Russian Watch, she's far too smart to be anything more than loosely related to Palin. She probably would have been more interesting if she'd been dumb as a rock and dressed in suits rather than a Machavellian decked out in designer evening duds.

Despite my many complaints, this was actually a kind of fun read. If you like very quick paced stories that throw in just about everything but the kitchen sink and then tie it up in a shiny bow and then the prince and the girl from the wrong side of the tracks fall in love and you don't have to think too much or invest too much, you'll enjoy this. It's is pure brain candy, though the weird label kind that you've never heard of that you find at Big Lots or the Dollar Store. For me, in the end, it was a little too glib, a little too neat, a little too weirdly sexual, and a little too desperately clever. However, there were glimpses of really wonderful writing, so I hope the second book has more of that and less of the "Look how cute and smart we are!" vibe. Someone will have to let me know, though. I wasn't impressed enough with this one to pick up the second.

Then too you cannot spend an hour alone; No company's more hateful than your own; You dodge and give yourself the slip; you seek In bed or in your cups from care to sneak: In vain: the black dog follows you, and hangs Close on your flying skirts with hungry fangs.

In the past few months, several of you have asked me at one time or another if I was okay. I told you I was fine, that I was busy, that I was stressed, all of those socially acceptable 21st century answers to the question, “Are you okay?”

I lied. And I would like to explain and apologize.

This week, I finally admitted to myself that I am suffering from depression. Not your garden variety blues, not your mean reds, but prolonged, underlying, never really goes away depression.

Those of you who know me well may be thinking, “Fucking finally?” And to you, I say, “Fuck off.” No, really. It hasn’t been easy. I have struggled with depression my entire lifE -- well, at least since I was about 8 years old. I have seen therapists, read every self-help book known to man, self-medicated, denied, denied, denied, and denied. In short, I’ve done everything but admit to the fucking problem.

Now, I have.

I thought I had it beat this time, but I think I had actually just pushed into a state of meta-depression wherein I was so depressed, I was numb. Nothing really hurt anymore, but nothing really felt very good, either. I guess I should have known the black dog was preparing for ambush back in October. I had 10 days off, and normally for me, this means travel. Traveling is one of the things in life that brings me the most joy. I love everything about it, from the packing to the airport (well, I don’t love long flights or flights in small planes because one of my myriad issues is claustrophobia), but when I started planning a trip in October, all I could think was, “Ugh. I’d have to go to the airport. I hate going to the airport. Then the flight is so long. I hate being on long flights. And then I have to worry about getting someone to come sit the cats. Fuck it. It’s not worth it.” Doing something that is one of my top 3 favorite things to do in the world was not worth it. Warning sign? Maybe?

For some people. I wrote it off as being tired.

And then, about three months ago, I had a pretty wicked depression, but it only lasted a couple of days, and I went numb again. And in truth, it wasn’t that bad. It had just been so long since I had a bad one, I forgot what a bad one feels like. But I remember now.

What does a bad one feel like? How to explain without sounding like I am going to go slash my wrists? It feels like nothing is worth it. It feels like every good thing you have in your life is shit. It feels like nothing will ever be good. It feels like there is no reason to anything you’re doing, and there never will be again.

Even things you love go bad and cause you pain. Last week was one of the worst weeks I have had mentally in a long, long time. Every time I looked at one of my cats, I thought, “I am going to have live through them dying. I am going to have to be there when they are put down. I cannot do it.” Every time I spoke to one of my parents, I thought to myself, “I am going to have to live through them dying. They are going to get older and older and sick and I am going to have to sit by helplessly and watch. I cannot do it.” Every morning on the way to work, I would hit traffic and think, “If this is really going to be the rest of my life, I cannot do it.” Anytime I didn't have an email waiting for me from a friend, I thought, "No one cares about me. Why fucking bother?" Each night I would sit down to write, and I would think, “I really, really suck at this. Why bother? It’s so much work and stress and anguish. And no one is going to read it anyway. What is the point?”

Are you starting to get the idea now?

After last week, I decided I have had enough. I don’t want to be this person anymore. I’ve tried being positive, I’ve tried “faking it,” I’ve tried it all. Being positive only made me more depressed, because I realized I had no fucking reason to be depressed. Great. My doctor has put me on meds that scare me shitless, and I am trying to feel hopeful that they will help. And yet …

And yet, I feel like I’ve lost something in admitting this problem. I feel shame. I feel weak. Now, if you or anyone else I care for came to me and said, “I am depressed, and I am seeking help, and I feel ashamed,” I would tell them they had no reason at all to be ashamed. I would tell them that asking for help shows character and strength. I would hug them and tell them I had their back. I would admire them, and be thankful I had them for a friend. And I would sincerely mean every single word with all of my being.

But this is not one of you. This is me. And I feel defeated. And I feel ashamed. Maybe part of it is my culture. Here in the South, we might put our crazies out on the front lawn and show them off (thank you, Suzanne Sugarbaker), but you know what we don’t do? We don’t tell them to seek help. We don’t tell them to see a therapist. We don’t tell them to take medicine. In fact, we would say, “Hell, Uncle Bubba’s been a fucking nut bag loony toon his entire life, and he ain’t seen no head shrinker. He ain’t taking no Prozac.” What we also don’t do is acknowledge that Uncle Bubba is maybe an alcoholic (like 2 of my uncles), a drug user (like my cousin), a person with violent tendencies (like my father, my other cousin, and myriad uncles), or the member of the family who shot himself on the front lawn (like my other, other cousin). And while logically I recognize the stupidity of this outlook, I guess some of the attitude crept in, because I still feel how I feel. Maybe my magic pills will make that go away, too.

I also feel defective. Maybe it’s just the straw that broke the proverbial Angela’s back -- with all the other fun issues I bring to the table, I just can’t believe this, too. This is one people aren’t so understanding about. It’s one that gets thrown into the “crazy” category. It’s one that gets the “Did you forget your meds?” comment when you act in a way that someone else doesn’t like. It’s one that makes you weak in ways others are not.

But, it is what it is. I can’t keep fighting because, sooner or later, the big black dog wins. The mother fucker never backs down. He gets tired, he slinks away, he hides out in the shadows, but he always comes back. Always.

So I am going to throw another pill at it. I can’t keep telling myself that my periodic sadness and hopelessness is a symptom of something bigger wrong in my life, like my job, or my financial situation, blah, blah. I know tons of people who deal with these same things each day, yet they don’t wonder why they bother. And frankly, my life is pretty good. I’ve accomplished so many things these past 2 years that I have always wanted to accomplish, things I thought I would never do. I’ve got a lot, and I mean a lot, to be thankful and feel blessed for. And yet … well, you know the rest.

I’m not, btw, writing this so that all of you will send me outpourings of love or fret. This is as much acknowledgement of the problem as I want to give it. Rather than have this conversation over and over with different people, I am writing this. And I write to sort things out. I always have, and I imagine I always will. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I don’t want to bitch and whine and moan and be self-indulgent. This is just to put a big “I am here” arrow on the map of my life so that you can all see it. In the meantime, I’m going to do what I always do when this shit hits; I am going to withdraw and quietly soldier on until it passes. Having to talk about it or act like I am fine so people won’t worry is too much effort currently. Having to ignore the look of pity in people’s eyes would only serve to piss me off. I don’t have the energy. All I can really manage right now is getting out of bed, and most days, that’s a fucking struggle, honestly.

So, to answer all of you who have asked: No, I’m not okay. But hopefully I will be. I am sorry I lied. You deserve better. If I’ve been an asshole, or distant, or flat out silent, I apologize. From the bottom of my heart. I will let you know when I'm back, and I hope you don't write me off in the meantime.

My dear friend Zack Jernigan, author of the soon-to-be released/future best-selling smash No Return, tagged me for this meme, and because I lerv him, and I think it is such a great idea, I agreed to carry it on. Not only do I get to talk about my upcoming novel, I get to pimp some of my favorite folks and their work, as well. Doesn’t get much better than that. Here are the five folks I tagged and their projects, with my answers concerning my own work to follow:

Dear friend, brilliant poet, and excellent tour guide Richard Cambridge has finished a remarkable “autobiographical work of fiction” called RIDE. I’ve read a good bit of it, and I have to say, it is only a matter of time before it gets picked up. I’m not a huge memoir fan, but Richard’s handling of the tale and voice are so unique, they give new meaning to the phrase “prose-poetry” and stretch the limits of what a memoir can be. The book features a great cast of characters, including a gentle giant who digs Fidel Castro, a cocaine caravan of truckers, a gypsy welder, a woman who communes with dolphins, and of course, the author himself. After encountering some of these folks, you might ask yourself what of the book is real and what is imagined. As Richard gently reminds us, “All of this is true, but some of it didn’t happen.”

Here’s a brief synopsis:

RIDE is an autobiographical coming of age story that centers around a recently-widowed American poet who was an activist during the height of the Civil Rights struggle and the protest movement against the Vietnam War. Two days before a scheduled poetry reading, the poet’s car breaks down, so, in an attempt to make the gig on time, he decides to hitchhike to his destination. The clock-racing trip takes 17 separate rides with 17 different mystical characters to complete and becomes a 1,000 mile odyssey through fifty years of American culture as experienced by a man struggling to find resolution in the wake of his wife’s death.

Be on the lookout for this one – it is truly phenomenal.

Julie Day and I check in with one another each week to make sure we’re staying honest in our work. It’s a great way to keep our minds on our writing without the pressure of having to show our shitty first drafts to someone, though I doubt that Julie’s first drafts are anywhere close to shitty. Her prose is like buttah. She’s enjoyed a slew of story acceptances recently -- here's what she has to say about them, and about her current WIP:

My story "Paradigm Shift" is forthcoming from the online magazine Electric Velocipede. It's about "Toddlers and Tiaras," teenage rage, and robots. I still don't have a date for this one.It originated as an experiment for Bonnie Stufflebeam's Art and Words Collaborative Show at The Boulevard in Fort Worth, Texas.

My story "China Island" is creepy and heartwarming and definitely dis-quietening. Classic Julie. It revolves around an island snow storm, a missing elderly man, and his obsessive, younger neighbor. It's forthcoming in the Winter 2013 edition of the online magazine The Colored Lens.

I’m also currently embroiled in a novella called ‘Idle Hands Make the Devil's Work.’ It's about a family of women addicted to both multi-verse travel and the devil man who makes it all possible. Oh, and sex, drugs and revenge: it's about that, too.

I had the pleasure of reading "Paradigm Shift," and can assure you, you need to read it. The rest sound unbelievably cool, and I can bet that, with Julie’s beautiful prose thrown into the mix, they will all be breathtaking reads.

Erin Enberg and I go way back and have shared a strange obsession or two over the years *cough Adam Lambert cough*. Erin is tricksy – she’s quiet and cool and kind, so you might miss the fact that she’s also one of the hardest working and fiercely talented ladies out there. I think 2013 is going to be her breakout year, and her movie Arabel is the project that is going to bust down the barriers for her! Here’s a synopsis, a link to the movie site, its twitter account, and to Erin’s awesome website (if you’re a Breaking Bad fan, you really have to check it out):

Arabelis a short film set in WWII about an American POW in Nazi-Occupied France who struggles with prison life. I wrote and co-directed it with Jayson Lobozzo, who was also the director of photography. We began working on it last January, filmed it in April and just have to shoot the ending. It was all filmed in Maine with a fantastic crew and cast. The script is based on a flash fiction piece I wrote called “The Stalag, 1944.” We expanded upon the main character's surreal experiences in a German prison camp, even making a photo of Greta Garbo come to life as an entirely new character. We plan to premiere it in February 2013. You can view the trailer and stay updated at www.arabelthemovie.com, follow us on twitter at twitter.com/arabelthemovie and can see more of my work at www.erinenberg.com.

Ed Ferrara is one of the most interesting guys you will ever meet. He’s articulate, funny, insanely intelligent, and he used to be a professional wrestler. What?! That’s right, y’all. With masks and spandex pants and the whole bit. Which is part of the reason his story, “Gig Marks,” which was featured in the collection Lucha Gore: Scares from the Squared Circle, kicks so much ass (pun intended). Ed is the real deal. Everything from the title to the locker room banter to the choreographed fight sequences reeks of authenticity.

Ed’s wicked prose is the other part of why “Gig Marks” is so great. It takes a certain kind of special to set a story of a man eaten alive by a guilt so strong it has the power of resurrection in the gritty, sad world of semi-pro wrestling. So wait – someone comes back from the dead? Kind of. Allow me to introduce, ladies and gentlemen, the Blood-Covered Harbinger of Doom, Star of All Your Nightmares, The Kid, one of the creepiest characters I’ve encountered in a while. The Kid quietly, relentlessly hunts our man ringside until he gets what he wants. Or does he? You’ll have to read the story to decide, but let me warn you, the ending to “Gig Marks” is as merciless as a well-executed sleeper hold: you don’t see it coming until it’s too late, and by then, you’re out for the count. Find it here.

John Adcox is a successful writer on many fronts (click on his name to check out his site), and now his debut novel, Blackthorne Faire, “is coming in May, 2013 from ePic Books in hardcover—and in a very special enhanced eBook edition, complete with a music soundtrack, video, story-relevant games, an interactive map, and a whole lot more. Think of it as a real-life version of the Magician’s Book from Narnia, or a volume from the library at Hogwarts. This is what an eBook on your Tablet or Smartphone should be.” Be watching for that. I can’t wait to see what they do with the e-book. I hear whispers of some very, very cool stuff.

Also from his site:

Welcome to Blackthorne Faire, a modern Renaissance Festival where nothing is what it seems. It is a place where a lost tune rediscovered in the Hidden Book of Secret Knowledge stirs long forgotten magic ... Where never-before-seen Tarot Cards foretell unexpected futures that always, always come true ... And where true love is found and lost and lost again in the shadow of a coming war. Beware, mortal, oh, beware the sounds that echo over the hills, across the bluffs, and through the winding pathways, for no one can hear the horns of Elfland and remain unchanged.

I also am going to re-pimp Zack and Will Ludwigsen's upcoming books . Zack's book, as I mentioned before, is called No Returnand is out March 5, 2013. Here’s what Liz Hand had to say about it: Zachary Jernigan's genre-defying epic raises the bar for literary speculative fiction. It has the sweep of Frank Herbert's DUNE and the intoxicatingly strange grandeur of Gene Wolfe's BOOK OF THE NEW SUN, with a decadent, beautifully rendered vision all its own. One of the most impressive debuts of recent years."

On Jeroun, there is no question as to whether God exists--only what his intentions are.

Under the looming judgment of Adrash and his ultimate weapon--a string of spinning spheres beside the moon known as The Needle--warring factions of white and black suits prove their opposition to the orbiting god with the great fighting tournament of Danoor, on the far side of Jeroun's only inhabitable continent.

From the Thirteenth Order of Black Suits comes Vedas, a young master of martial arts, laden with guilt over the death of one of his students. Traveling with him are Churls, a warrior woman and mercenary haunted by the ghost of her daughter, and Berun, a constructed man made of modular spheres possessed by the foul spirit of his creator. Together they must brave their own demons, as well as thieves, mages, beasts, dearth, and hardship on the perilous road to Danoor, and the bloody sectarian battle that is sure to follow.

On the other side of the world, unbeknownst to the travelers, Ebn and Pol of the Royal Outbound Mages (astronauts using Alchemical magic to achieve space flight) have formed a plan to appease Adrash and bring peace to the planet. But Ebn and Pol each have their own clandestine agendas--which may call down the wrath of the very god they hope to woo.

Who may know the mind of God? And who in their right mind would seek to defy him? Gritty, erotic, and fast-paced, author Zachary Jernigan takes you on a sensuous ride through a world at the knife-edge of salvation and destruction, in this first installment of one of the year's most exciting fantasy epics.

So you know, check it out. It’s gonna be gooooood.

And here’s what Zack said about Will in his Next Big Thing post: Will is one of my favorite authors, personally and professionally. I know of at least two novels he has written (or is in the process of writing; not sure about the second one) that a smart publisher would do well to buy rightnow, because they're that good. Seriously, he's written scenes that have me grinning like a madman and pumping my fist in the air.

As for short fiction, he's been selling to professional markets for over a decade, with one collection already out and a second on its way. In Search of and Others—which includes an introduction from one Jeffrey Ford—comes out on March 1st, 2013, and you should totally buy it.

Here's a taste of what you'll find if you do:

A house inches eight hundred miles to confess its horrible crime. The last resident of a mental institution discovers he's not alone. A middle-schooler performs an experiment to determine how much time we fit in dreams. Boys looking for wonder find more than they're expecting in the Adirondacks with Charles Fort. A detective learns everything he's ever wanted to know... and some things he hasn't.”

I hardily second all of this. I had the good fortune to read “In Search Of” in advance, and all I can say is, get ready. More than one of these stories made me misty, and several made me afraid to turn out the light at night. But all of them have that Will Ludwigsen je ne sais quoi that makes all of his writing so exceptional. Each story is , in a word, beautiful.

Now, for my answers.

What is the working title of your next book or story?

Winter’s Chapel

Where did the idea come from for the book or story?

WC started out as an 8-page short story I wrote for a creative writing class. It was meant to be a modern fairy tale in the vein of Angela Carter’s work, and while I’m pretty sure I fell far short of that mark, I must have done something right, because across the board, people wanted to know “What happens next?” Answering that question turned into a novel.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Oy. This is a little bit tough for me, because I don’t really watch movies very often, and I am not up on a lot of actors and actresses. Let’s see …

Jake: Henry Cavill, maybe? He certainly fits the physical description, though just a teeny bit short. I could also see Alexander Skarsgaard, though his coloring is pretty much the opposite of Jake’s. If either of these dudes should ever find themselves cast in the role, however, I’m going to have to do some serious rewriting to include more nudity.

Lucinda: Errrr … this is tough. Evan Rachel Wood, maybe? Whoever it is has be sort of tough and tomboyish, and able to pull off supernatural shenanigans in a convincing matter.

Gerald: Jason Flemying! Though I think I just want him to play everyone with red hair, ever, because I think he’s hot. If Rupert Grint were a little bit older, he might could do it, and if Ralph Fiennes were a bit younger, he definitely could (but then, he can do anything). Paul Bettany, perhaps? I dunno.

Serpetina: Toughest one yet. I want to say Charlize Theron, because she has the looks and the gravitas (plus, she’s hotter than 500 hells), but she’s totally wrong physically. Serpetina is a wee thing, not an Amazonian goddess like Ms. Theron. Christina Ricci might be good, as might Dakota Fanning once she gets a bit older. That Amanda Seyfried looks good too, but I haven’t ever seen her act in anything, so I don’t know if she’d be able to pull off the delicate balance between being sympathetically damaged and just flat out evil.

Grace: I would love Julianna Marguiles for this. I hope she continues to defy the aging process, just in case.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book or story?

Surrounded by magic and caught between worlds, Lucinda, Serpetina, Jake, and Gerald struggle to define what is real, love or hate, forgiveness or revenge, need or desire.

Will your book or story be self-published or represented by an agency?

Not sure. I’m hoping for represented by an agent.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

I really, really can’t answer this. I started the ms about 6 years ago, then put it aside for a while, unfinished. I’d pull it out every now and then and work on it, but I didn’t get serious, really serious, until the summer of 2010. I queried it this past October, but as to how long any of the drafts took, I really cannot say.

What other books or short stories would you compare this story to within your genre?

In my query letter, I impishly compared myself to authors Neil Gaiman, Elizabeth Hand, Susanna Clarke, Deborah Harkness, and Anne Rice. I was told by someone who is in the biz and has read the novel that these were spot on, though, truthfully, I don’t think I am near the writer any of these folks are (with the exception of Harkness – yuck. Actually, her writing isn’t so terrible, it’s some other stuff, but that’s another post). The story was very definitely inspired by “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell,” though I doubt that shows, and I tend to go big on the prose like Anne Rice. I want to feel like some of the themes hearken to Liz Hand’s earlier stuff, but she’s a goddess, so I am sure that’s wishful thinking. It’s got a contemporary element that could be considered similar to that in “Neverwhere,” but damn, that’s a great fucking book, so again, not sure I live up. It’s got witches and romance like Harkness, but I hope that is where the similarities end.

Who or what inspired you to write this book or story?

This was one of the first fantastical things I ever wrote. It came shortly on the heels of being introduced to Angela Carter, Jeannette Winterson, AS Byatt, and Atwood novels other than “Handmaid’s Tale.” The short story that spawned the novel was written for Reg McKnight’s class, who was the first person to ever set me straight about the myth of “genre” fiction. I was also in the middle of some fairly intense study of the Romantic writers and Victorian literature at the time, and I think a lot of that aesthetic comes through (it’s not a fast- paced, action-packed, page-turner by any stretch of the imagination). I also visited Tintagel, England somewhere in there as part of a class on the King Arthur legend that I took at Oxford University, and the combination of the physical aspects of Tintagel and the history of England got me going, as well. I did some reading about various European witch hysterias, which heavily influenced the novel. As it turns out, the events of the novel closely resemble those of the Salem witch hysteria, although I did not do any research about that incident until after several people made the assumption that Salem was the basis for the story. As an aside, the outbreak of witch persecutions follow an amazingly similar pattern, no matter the country or time frame, a phenomenon I find most eye-opening. So, in sum, I was inspired by reading a bunch of beautifully written stories and poems, by an odd little tourist town on the edge of the world, and some of the most horrific historical events that have ever transpired.

What else about the book or story might pique the reader’s interest?

It’s got words? I don’t know. It seems like there is a little something something for everyone in it – alternate worlds, time travel, scenes that make you go “eeewwww,” true love, betrayal, unrequited love, fudge, witches, creatures, creepy buildings – you name it, it’s in there. I hope, though, that rather than just a big, messy mish-mash, I’ve done something that defies genre and feels cohesive and new. I hope my characters come off on even ground; I truly do not want this to be another novel where seemingly powerful chicks somehow end up needing to be saved by a big strong man. We all need to be saved by someone big and strong sometimes, but I don’t think gender should come into it. Ideally, a reader will come away thinking all of the characters were flawed in some way, yet redeemable in others. I tried to do something a little deeper with the characters than what you might find in other novels that involve some of these elements without losing the sense of magical otherworldliness those same elements bring to the party. Sort of realistic fantasy. Is there such thing as realistic fantasy? If not, can we make it up? How does that sound?